


All or Nothing

by SaltyWords (agent4hire22)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Castiel/Dean Winchester One Shot, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Human Castiel, Love Confessions, M/M, spoilers through 10x22
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 10:32:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3974851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent4hire22/pseuds/SaltyWords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel felt like he was a live wire of sensation, emotion, and physical touch. The veil of heaven was lifted from him and he was an exposed nerve of mortality again. Every little thing had such gravity and meaning. Every micro expression and warm gesture had his chest in knots. Now was as good a time as any to tell Dean that he was in love with him. And that he refused to live without him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All or Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through 10x22 and the 10x23 promo
> 
> ****EDITED FOR QUALITY 5/20*****

Castiel opened the door to Dean’s room and felt the weight of it. Of the empty space in front of him. The room smelled of Dean, was full of reminders of him, but Dean wasn’t in it. 

Cas felt light and fragile. He nervously straightened his blue striped tie, running his hand down the length of it. It felt like a noose. His clothes were all overwhelmingly foreign. Heavy with the choice he’d just made.

“What’s the plan?”

Castiel felt Sam close behind him, but thought about how strange it was to not be able to hear the beat of his heart, or the hum of the blood running through his veins. It was just like before, the odd, singular solitude of humanity. This, he knew, was why humans were drawn together. Or, perhaps, one of the many reasons.

“I’m going to change,” Cas said letting his hand finally slip off the doorknob. He had a lot of reasons for shedding his suit and coat, not the least of which was, if he was slated to die tonight, he wanted to go down with the smell of Dean on him. But, Sam didn't need to know that.

“Okay.” Sam nodded, but didn’t seem to understand.

“I only get to do this once, Sam. If I walk in there in this,” he pulled at his trench coat. The thing was entirely too warm in the heated bunker. “We don't know how bad he is. I might not even get a word in before he brutalizes me. And I can’t heal if that happens.”

“But if you look different, he might at least pause.” Sam pursed his lips and nodded again. “Let me go with you Cas. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“No. This is on me, as you both say. I promised Dean something and I’m going to follow through.” He turned to Sam, looked at the sunken placidity that had melted his expressions into a mask. “You can wait here for us until we get back.” He tried a smile, but Sam didn’t bite. 

“I’ll be alone again,” Sam said. “Like when you both got kicked to Purgatory.”

“We’ll come back. Both of us. In one piece. Just like Purgatory.” Comfort in lies came easier when Castiel could feel the weighty meaning of his words. When he was overwhelmed by emotion just from the look on Sam’s face. “I’ll do everything I can to bring your brother back,” Cas added patting his shoulder.

“I know you will, Cas. But I want you to do everything you can to come back yourself. I don’t only care about Dean.”

Cas felt the tears well and fall down his cheeks, blurring his vision and burning like hot sauce down his face. He nodded. “Thank you.”

He felt like he was a live wire of sensation, emotion, and physical touch. The veil of heaven was lifted from him and he was an exposed nerve of mortality again. Every little thing had such gravity and meaning. Every micro expression and warm gesture had his chest in knots. Now was as good a time as any to tell Dean that he was in love with him. And that he refused to live without him. 

  
  


\----------

  
  


Castiel pulled the Continental into the motel parking lot and shifted into park. He recognized the blue Ford beater parked crooked in a spot down the way as a vehicle Sam had used once or twice. Dean was there. Now he just had to find the room. He eased his car door open and felt this jacket pocket for his FBI badge. It would have been easier to use it if he still had the suit on, but he’d seen Dean get by once or twice without it.

_Just tell ‘em you’re off duty, if anyone asks._

He heard Dean’s advice even though he wasn’t there to give it. Castiel’s heart jumped at the thought of seeing him again. He was close. He was in the string of rooms somewhere.

He walked into the Manager’s office and waited in the dank gray room. It was quiet, save for the grated warble of an old vent weaving sound into the stillness. He tapped the bell. An old man shuffled from the back, coughing with a wet, hacking bark, oxygen tank pulled behind him. “For one?” he asked. The shadows sat heavy in the folds of his eyes. Castiel wondered why he would have to be the night manager at such an age, but quickly dismissed the question.

Money. That was usually the answer. He assumed it wasn’t any different for this old man, on his last leg, toting his batteries behind him.

“Um no,” Cas said tapping his pocket. He withdrew the badge and held it up. “I’m actually looking for a man who might be staying here.”

“Oh yeah? Feds? Shit. You got a picture?” His voice wheezed out of him as he squinted through his bifocals at dual fold wallet case.

“Yes.” Cas pecked one of Dean’s fake ID’s and plopped it on the counter beside his badge. “Have you seen him?”

The man picked it up, adjusted his glasses, and tilted the ID toward the small desk lamp which did little more than illuminate the dancing dust bunnies. “Uh yeah, maybe. Kinda looks like a fella that checked in ‘ere yesterday evening. Except that guy was, uh…” he gestured to his face, nodded. “Dead eyes, you know? Kinda gave me the heebie-jeebies.”

Castiel squinted and nodded. He understood. He was all too familiar with the look on Dean's face the last time he saw him.

“Whad he do? Kill somebody? I get those kinds ‘a people in ‘ere sometimes. Untrustworthy folks.” He slid a short bar stool from under the desk and eased himself down on it. “I ain’t as young as I used to be. Can’t handle those types anymore. I used to give ‘em hell for dirtying up the joint. Knock ‘em straight out on their asses. But now,” He shrugged, gestured to the room. “Beggars can’t be choosers, you know?”

Cas pocketed the ID and his badge. “What room did you give him?"

“The one on the end. Room 124. I don’t want no trouble now.”

“No, he’s a good man. I’m just here to talk to him.”

“ Yeah.” The old man tried to scoff and it got lost in another wrecked coughing fit. His chest sounded like it was stuffed with plastic bags. Castiel squinted against the desire to diagnose him, but he couldn’t quite grasp the disease. “I know what talking leads to around ‘ere,” he said finally. “Ain’t no  _ good men _ checking into the Sam Houston Motel anymore.”

Cas worked his jaw, nodded, and thanked him. He was all too worried that was true.

  
  


\---------------

  
  


It was harder to knock on the door than he expected. His arm hung stiff at his side and he swore the rush of blood in his ears was loud enough for other people to hear. He swallowed hard, his throat dry and scratchy. He wanted a drink of water. It was so strange to feel that sensation again, like waking from a coma, life was all coming back to him.

He rapped softly and the immediate rustling inside stepped him back. He expected a gun to come out if anything at all. But the door popped open and Dean peered at him from the other side. His face was shadowed in the poorly lit room and cloud-sullen nightscape of the parking lot, but Cas could see the strain in it. The grown worry lines, and red bags underneath.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes swept up and down Cas’ body without movement or reaction. “How did you find me?” he asked, his voice was hoarse and measured. A note thrumming the string to anger.

“Crowley. Location spell,” Castiel said simply. “Can I come in? I want to talk.”

“You guys best buds now?”

“I did what I had to in order to find you.”

Dean grunted, erratic energy spilling from him like steam. His body shivered visibly despite the darkness. The veins in his arms swollen and ready for fight. “I told you I wouldn’t miss next time,” he said.

Castiel’s heart thrashed, weak but insistent all at the same time. “You didn’t miss last time,” he reflected. “You hit exactly what you were aiming at.”

Dean’s temples flexed as his jaw tensed. He looked away, back into his room, then at Cas again with a resounding sigh. “If that’s true, then, why are you here?”

Cas felt the bump of the vial in his pocket like he was smuggling a baby through a vampire’s nest. One false move and it would be gone. He peered around Dean, and looked back over his own shoulder, into the rain-wet, dead parking lot. The only sign of life was the scavengers of the seedy nightlife peppering the ally ways and dumpsters. The wind raised around them, curling Cas’ hair, brushing a shiver down his neck. He turned back to Dean, slowly laid his hand on his chest, and gently pushed against him, backing him into the room. He kept a lock on Dean's eyes, made certain his face was serious but soft. Dean moved with it at first, just watching him, one foot back, then the other. Before Cas could blink, Dean's hand came off the doorknob and snatched his wrist in a vice grip. 

“Dean,” Cas croaked, moved with the angled twist in his shoulder. His other hand flew up, palm out. Surrender. The urgency in his voice was just enough to catch Dean. “Relax,” Cas said. “I’m just here to talk, I'm not going to do anything to you.” 

Dean eyed him, his face pulling into a pinched scowl.

“Can I have my arm back? I'd appreciate if you didn't break it. If you do, it isn't healing again. Not for another four to six weeks, anyway.”

Dean thought on it, then relaxed, The pressure in his grip easing just enough to ebb the bright burn of pain in Cas' shoulder. 

“Hands off," he said just before releasing Cas' arm altogether. He took a single step back and straightened.

Castiel was still only halfway in the door. He rubbed his wrist and switched approaches.

“They aren’t going to do much,” he said lightly. “My hands. They aren’t trained like yours. Not _as_ trained, anyway. Though, I was fairly good at opening jars before.” He smiled and tilted his head at Dean. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m not an angel anymore, Dean.” He held his hands up as if that were supposed to prove something.

_See? There's nothing up my sleeves._

“I’m a,” he thought. “A real boy… again.”

“A human? You're human?”

“Yes,” Cas nodded. “No more broken wings. No more tattered halo. Just showers, and eating, and bruises.”

“Why?”

“That’s what I'm here to talk to you about. Can I come inside?”

Dean didn’t move.

“We could have this conversation in the doorway if you want, but it would probably be awkward.”

Behind them, a group of teenagers passed. Loud and vulgar. Likely drunk.

“Talk.” Dean eyed them and Castiel didn’t like the flash he got in his eye.

“Alright,” he said loudly. “But I was going to tell you I’m in love with you.”

Dean faltered. His eyes shot back to Castiel’s face like a laser point. The teenagers behind them grew quiet, chuckled. “Just come inside you ass,” he mumbled stepping aside reluctantly to let Cas pass.

Dean closed the door and didn’t turn around. The silence was thick. Not even a coughing air vent to level it. Dean finally rubbed his face, sighed, and moved away. Cas absorbed the crippled state of the room, of what Dean had done to it. Things thrown, bathroom mirror broken, lamp smashed against a wall, chairs upturned.

“Did no one hear you thrashing the place?” Cas asked nonchalantly.

“If they did, they didn’t come knocking.”

Dean took a long swig from a golden whiskey bottle on the bedside table. The label had been torn off, the shreds of it were peppered around the chair legs as if he’d been nervously pulling at it and shredding it as he sat there. 

“Are those my clothes?” he asked finally. 

Castiel could tell it had been kicking around at the edge of his tongue since he’d opened the door. It was what Cas had hoped. Bring out some of Dean’s curiosity, rouse _Dean_ just a little more. “Yes,” he said smoothing his hand down the front of the shirt he’d chosen. The blue, pink, and white flannel. A white t-shirt underneath, pair of Dean’s jeans below that. Everything fit pretty well, actually. The pants were just a bit too long. “This is the shirt you were wearing the day I told you that you were someone to look up to. A role model. I remember because I thought you looked very nice in it. Very,” Cas looked away searching for the right word. “Handsome,” he said straightening.

Dean frowned, suddenly found something very interesting in the calloused skin of his hands, and muttered, “yeah. Some role model." He pinched the bridge of his nose, turned away. Shifted anxiously between his feet. 

He suddenly hauled the bottle of whiskey off the table and chucked it into the far wall, shattering it with a deafening wet pop. "Cut the shit!" he growled. "Why are you here?”

Cas didn't flinch. “Because I have the cure for the Mark, Dean. I have it with me.”

Dean's breath caught. His brow raising, open and hopeful. “A cure? An actual cure? From what? The Book?”

“I won’t lie to you. Yes, it’s from the Book of the Damned. It’s where my grace went.” He pulled the vial from his pocket. The glowing, swirling vibrant blues, blacks, and greens, sloshed inside. “This is why I’m human.”

Dean shook his head, moved from the table, paced to the edge of the bathroom linoleum. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he spat. “You gave up your grace for the spell? For what?”

“For you,” Cas said without missing a beat. He watched as Dean fidgeted, couldn’t find somewhere to stand or look.

“You gave up immortality for the dickbag that just beat you into a pulp,” he said.

Cas took a long, steady breath and nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I did.” He moved closer, lowered the vial to his side, approached Dean cautiously. “And I would do it again. I would do it a thousand times if I had to. I would slice my throat open and pray that the King of Hell kept his end of the deal.”

Dean watched him. Looked away.

“You walk up here like I’m a wild animal,” he said quietly. “And you tell me in the same breath that you’ve just given everything to me. What the hell does that mean?”

Cas paused, thought. “Fire is beautiful until you’re burned,” he said. “Then you have learn from your mistake or risk that pain again.” He felt his lungs heavy in his chest. The look in Dean’s eyes, the sadness and vulnerability, it was his Dean. The Mark for all its effort couldn’t erase that. It could only mask it from time to time. “Last time I had oven mitts on, this time I’m bare,” he continued. “Forgive me, Dean. I’m just trying to settle back into this,” he held his arms out to the side, “vulnerable feeling.” 

“Like a stripped wire,” Dean agreed. “Yeah, you’re human.”

Cas smiled. Nodded. He considered the vial in his hand and held it up again. The colors danced on the walls of the room. “Will you take it?”

“You know I don’t want this.” Dean bit his lip, slapped his forearm over the Mark. “I’ve dreamt hundreds of times that you guys came to me and said those words. _We’ve got a cure._ But, now that you do, I mean, what are the consequences?”

“If you don’t?”

“If I do. What’s the nuclear fallout look like?”

Cas looked at the carpet, the dull, worn brown of it. Threadbare with time, dirtied with the feet of strangers and neglect. “I honestly don’t know,” he sighed. “But, it could restart the apocalypse for all I care. Because, if you don’t take it, the consequences are dire. You’re cursed to walk the earth murdering for all eternity. The difference is, you’ve got a fighting chance to live through the first. You won’t live through the second.”

Dean’s face went in his hands, a breath shuddering through him. Cas touched his fingers, pulled them from his face, and couldn’t help the sad smile that found him as their eyes met. “It’s okay to choose yourself,” he said. “It’s okay to be selfish about this.”

“I know what I want,” Dean grieved . His fingers played against Castiel’s palm, his eyes nervous, but well-intentioned again. “I just don’t feel like this is a decision I can make.”

“Because you don’t think you’re worthy of saving? Or, because you’re afraid of what you’ll have when it’s all been done?”

“I don’t know.” Dean shrugged, went quiet. “I don’t deserve you, Cas,” he admitted softly. “Especially not after…”

Castiel put the vial in Dean’s hand. Closed his fingers around it. “Dean Winchester,” he said, measured and soft. “You’re forgiven for the bunker. It wasn’t you. It was the Mark. _You_ are what stopped it. It's already forgotten.”

“Cas...”

Castiel was up against Dean now, his body had gravitated to him. His hands moved to his face, their stomachs pressed together. Their faces inches apart. Cas could fall into the green of Dean’s eyes and drowned. It would be a happy death. He ached to kiss him. To rub the fear and loathing from his body. To fix him like he’d reassembled him after Hell. But, he had different tools this time. Instead of grace, he had his unabashed love for the man. Instead of wings, he would use his soul to carry him.

“Cas, you don’t want to do this,” Dean breathed. Their foreheads bent together, his breath whispered against Cas’ cheek.

“You say my name and I’m totally ruined,” Cas shivered. “I’m so weak for you, Dean. I couldn’t _want to do_ anything more.” He ran his hands down Dean’s chest, felt as a burst of chemicals took over, flushing his face, elevating his endorphins with the beat of his heart.

The heat of Dean, the smell of him, dirt, and sweat, and cotton, it was intoxicating. It drew Cas in. He kissed his cheek. Ran his fingers over the popped tendons in Dean’s neck. Over the slope of his collarbone. Their lips brushed together.

Dean pulled back, grabbed Castiel’s shirt as he did, rough but repressed. He was afraid to commit, but didn’t want Cas to leave. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he moaned.

“Then don’t.”

Dean shied from him, turned his head, leaned away, then came back in meeting his lips hungrily, softly. He pulled at Castiel’s shirt, pulled him in, aligned Cas along the front of his body. The insecurity in the shiver of his skin subsided as Castiel sunk into it, breathed Dean in. Licked against his tongue.

“You’ve gotta keep me,” Dean begged.

“I’m yours.”

“Don’t fuck with me,” he said. “I can’t…”

“You know I’m not, Dean.”

Castiel kissed him. Skirted fingers over the nape of Dean’s neck, buried his face into the hollow next to his jaw. “Being with you like this,” he paused, looked at Dean. Grabbed his hand, the hand with the vial, and held it up. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I would die a thousand brutal deaths if those deaths got me to this moment.”

Dean teared, sobbed. Kissed him again. “Stop,” he said.

“It’s the truth.”

“How can you love a monster?”

Cas wiped Dean's tears, kissed his face. “I’ve been a monster. I know what they look like. You are not a monster, Dean. You never could be. You are exactly this.” He pulled back, swept his eyes down the length of Dean’s body. “In the throes of the most evil curse on earth. The curse that created murder, and you’re crying in my arms. You’re remorseful, guilt-ridden. You just want to be loved. You just want to love. That’s not a monster.”

Dean looked at the vial. His hand trembled. “And if I fuck up the world?”

“Then fuck it,” Cas smiled.

  
  


Dean's heart thrummed at Cas' gentle touch. He was floored by the idea of being so close to him. The weight of his body on his own. The disheveled look of Cas, the mess of his hair, the shadow of his unshaven chin. Humanity seemed to tug the gorgeous side out of Castiel. The look of him coaxed _mushy_ thoughts  into Dean’s mind. Romantic-trope, chick-flick ideas. Combing his hair down with his fingers. Taking him to the bathroom and help him get a close shave. Buttoning or _unbuttoning_ his shirt.

The Mark burned in his ears. Whispered to him.

_Kill him._

_His blood is hot._

_Kill him._

_Feel it._

Dean shut his eyes. Felt the cure between his fingers like a needle. The barricade to those whispers was leaking. He knew it. It was about to crack open and vomit death on the planet. This was why he was losing his mind. He thought one thing while the Mark whispered another. It all got muddied somewhere in the middle. His arms constantly relaxing and contracting at the will of his rage. His body was an aching ball of sore muscles.

He was so tired.

_Then fuck it,_ Cas had said. His face was so earnest, how could Dean deny him? How could he deny himself this man who’d just given him everything he had to offer? His immortality in heaven. His grace. His heart.

“Save the world from Lucifer just to tie the noose around it myself later?” he asked.

Cas shrugged. “Why the hell not?”

“Yeah… okay.”

He tossed the vial back, swallowed it like a shot of whiskey. It burned like acid on its way down. Like a rabid cat, clawing its way through his throat. He coughed, bent over. Retched. Cas grabbed him, helped him to the floor. Called his name. The liquid churned in his stomach, hit his nerves like lightning. Tore through the cells in his body in an electrical shock wave. His muscles seized, he screamed. His arm felt like it was melting. Like the flesh was bubbling from the bone and slipping to the floor in puffs of hot ash. He gasped. His heart skipped. He felt Cas over top of him. His vision went white, the nerves in his eyes overloaded. He felt the scream in his chest, but couldn’t hear it. He could only hear a deafening whine of sound, like an angel’s voice. His head felt stuffed. Packed full. As if it were going to crack open.

Then, just as suddenly, everything went dark again. His nerves quieted, stilled. Sounds came to him. Castiel’s voice. The sharp, jagged gasp of his own breath. Sobbing.

_Coming from me?_

Cas touched his face, his voice was close. His cheek on Dean’s. Dean’s heart ran erratic in his chest, his skin sweat-soaked and shivering. He grabbed the back of Cas’ neck, both hands and pulled him in, hugged him desperately.

“It’s over,” Cas cooed. “You’re alright. It’s over now.”

He caressed Dean’s face. His hands running gently over his skin, wiping the tears from him, patting him. Kissing his temple.

Dean breathed in the quiet of his own mind.

The whispers were gone.

He looked at Cas, wide-eyed and happy. He smiled, laughed. “It’s gone,” he said. He checked his arm, nothing but flat, unblemished skin.

Cas smiled back at him chuckled.

Dean pulled him in, kissed him hard, gasped into him. Felt the shivers course through his body as Castiel’s tongue met his, as Cas moaned against him. His hands traveled down Dean’s body, under his shirt.

He crawled on top of him, flipped a leg over Dean's body, straddled him, sitting comfortably on Dean’s hipbones. Against his ready erection.

“I can’t believe it fucking worked,” Dean gasped. He felt alive again. Like he could breathe.

Cas nibbled his earlobe. “Yes,” he said.

“It fucking worked and I feel like me again. No fucking voices, or shitty visions!”

Cas kissed his neck, sucked a bruise into the side of it. Dean moaned, pulled desperately at Cas’ pants. His muscles quivered with exhaustion and anticipation. He was so tired, but he wanted Cas so bad. Never wanted his weight to get off of him. Never wanted to stop breathing in the smell of him in Dean’s clothes. The ruddy mixture of dial soap and Borax detergent. So simple. So domestic.

He popped the button on Cas' pants, but Cas caught him. Moved him away. Laced their fingers together. Brought his hand back up.

Dean whispered, “We just fucked the world--”

“\--who cares?”

“\--But I’m me again.”

“\--Yes you are. And you’re the only thing I care about.”

Dean laughed. Moved against Cas’ hand as Cas slipped the other into his pants. He rubbed the heel of his palm over Dean’s erection. Kissed him. “Who are you now?” Dean managed through a thick whimper.

“I’m yours.”

“Jesus.” Dean shivered against the build of desire as Cas wrapped his hand around his dick. As he kissed him, licked his neck and nipped his skin. Castiel’s hand moved steady and strong, catching the precome and slicking it down Dean’s shaft, then rolling it back up again.

Dean’s brain sung. His body was a tangled bundle of nerves and burnout. Cas was tamping him back out, smoothing the mental bruises with pleasure. With love. With reprieve from the mountain of shit he’d probably just unleashed.

_Enjoy this moment_ , Cas seemed to say. _Don’t think about anything else. This is all there is in the world. Nothing else matters but you and I in this shitty motel room. On this disgusting fucking floor. Sweating and writhing against each other. Spit, and teeth, and hard dicks._

_Hormones and hard-on’s._

Cas squeezed Dean’s hand, and breathed into Dean’s neck, a moan escaping him as he bucked himself against Dean.

“Take your pants off,” Dean whispered.

“No, this is for you,” Cas said quickly and backed himself off. “This is all about you right now.”

His voice was warm gravel in Dean’s ear, grateful and overwhelming.

"I want you to," Dean begged.

"Too bad.”

Dean could hear the smile in Cas' voice. Feel the tingle he got from denying Dean. "I'll get my turn. Right now, this is you."

"Oh," Dean pulled Cas' head back, looked him in the eye. "You're a fucking animal, aren't you?"

"I'm new to sex, Dean. I'm not new to thinking about it. Thinking about you... Like this."

Cas kissed him. Dean breathed against him, clawed his hand and the front of Cas’ shirt.

"Yeah? That so? And thinking about what you want to do to me?" Dean urged as he moved with the stable thrum of Cas' fist. Feeling Castiel’s stubble against his temple as he writhed.

"All of the things I want to do to you," Cas agreed. He bit the well of Dean's lip and fingered the top of his dick. The wave of pleasure shot through Dean like a low bass sound wave.

"Yes, Cas," he moaned.

"This is just the beginning," Cas whispered, moving his hand down the length of Dean again, his wrist fluid and firm. His breath hot and sweet against Dean's face. "I plan on showing you every day how grateful I am for you. For your decision."

"Fuck. Cas."

"Yes. We will. Soft and sweet. Hard and uncompromising. Whatever you need. Whenever you need it. However you want it."

"Yes."

Cas’ hand was wet as it slipped up and down him. Warm and tight. Unforgiving.

"Now come for me, Dean.” Castiel’s voice played in Dean’s ear. Methodical and calculated. Saturated with wanting. “I need to see your face."

Dean did. The orgasm struggling out of him like a kick. He moaned. Buried his fingers in Cas' back, gasped as his brain scrambled into momentary unintelligible garble. Bright colors and humming muscles.

He laid his head back, his neck finally giving out. His energy sufficiently spent, and he panted.

To have the quiet again. The nothingness but his own lazy thoughts. His own breath. Castiel’s lips against him. To feel safe again.

Opening his eyes seemed like too much work, but he felt Cas' eyes on him. "Jesus fucking Christ," he grumbled.

Dean rubbed his hands down Cas' cheeks, looked up at him, dismissed the wave of embarrassment when he saw Cas' smile. "Fuck you," Dean said with a rush of red hitting his ears. "I'm an idiot for waiting this long."

He swallowed hard. Rubbed his thumbs on Cas’ flushed cheeks and felt the tears well back up. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he said softly. “But it’s the best damn thing I’ve ever done.”

Now, Dean knew, they had to go out those doors. They had to leave the seedy motel room and Dean would have to face whatever evil he’d just unleashed by selfishly curing himself. But, Cas’ gentle touch reminded him that he wasn’t alone. He had family. He was loved.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
